Stag dos and stag dont’s

Sometimes I’m spotted and a stag will bark across a bar: “Oi! You English?” To which I reply: “Qué no, señorito. Soy un burro.” (it’s important to roll those donkey Rs). “No entiendo inglés. Nada, pero nada.”

That usually does the trick, until I turn to an amigo and start chatting away in English with a rather obvious Geordie accent.

Barcelona has been the city of choice for stag-dos since at least the 1990s; I know this for sure because the first time I ever visited this fine city was on a stag-do in my early 20s. 

You can normally spot the stags at the airport, on account of them all wearing the same stupid t-shirt with a dumb slogan and photo of the groom on it. Never mind holding the rings or the after dinner speech on the wedding day: the best man’s most important job is to organise this trip and get the t-shirts printed. Another sign is stags gathered in the EasyJet or Ryanair aisle drinking from plastic cups. They just love to applaud when the plane lands. (Top tip from a frequent commuter; don’t fly to Barcelona on a Thursday evening – that’s when stags get airborne).

Imagine being a local, enduring wave after wave of these young blokes coming into town every weekend from UK airports. Year after year, decade after decade. It defines their opinion of the young British male.

Last Sunday I got on the train that travels up the coast to the north of the city. It was packed, but I found a bit of space beside the door and then, of course, as we pulled into the next station on the way into Barcelona proper… I saw them on the platform. Yup. My first stags of the season. 

Over a dozen Brit boys in their mid-20s or thereabouts, all wearing the same stupid t-shirt with a photo of the groom on it. A few wore wigs. One lad had painted his face orange and was wearing a red cap with “Make America Great Again” written on it. 

And the groom? He was sitting on the platform in a wheelchair, I could tell it was him on account of his face being emblazoned on everyone else’s t-shirt and then… behold a miracle! He got out of his chair and folded it up because there was so little room in the carriage. Get it? He was soon to be crippled for life by his impending nuptials. Ho ho ho.

The herd had clearly spent the day supping from Lake Cerveza and, of course, gathered around me in the carriage. They were from the south west somewhere, judging by their accent, direct from Bristol Airport.

My fellow train travellers exchanged glances and sighs, and one young girl pushed her ear pods so deep into her ears she could have caused herself an injury. It’s not fun to be a young female in close proximity to a herd of stags. She obviously knew this already.

They laughed and joked and then came a smell that was not foreshadowed by a noise. It was rancid. An evil, tapas fueled violation of everyone else’s personal space. 

“Ah man,” said a stag. “Who’s farted?”

Then, the leader clocked me. His eyes just stayed on me a beat too long. It was the orange faced Donald Trump impersonator. My guess is he was the best man, my guess is that he was also the proud father of that green gas still permeating the carriage. He just seemed so very very proud.

“Alright mate, you English…?”

“¿Yo? No, no, steenky culo, no. Soy un burro,” I replied as the train pulled into the next station – two stops shy of my actual destination. I escaped.

But, then there’s the hen-dos…